Diary of a Succubus
by BanzuSama
Summary: The diary of Madeleine De La Mettrie from the Book of Shadows. Read it it's pretty interesting. Please review, then I'll know to put up another chapter


Madeleine De La Mettrie September 30th the day of our lord 1641  
  
I've decided to keep a journal; the thoughts and events that come about in my daily life. These things should be written down for my children to read as they grow older. Maybe being a child myself, I think about things like that. In any case my mind-set is here now, for anyone to read. Of course they aren't going to see it yet, I shall keep it locked in the bottom drawer of my desk, in the hidden compartment that only I, and the man who fashioned it, knows about. It resides under a false bottom of the drawer where a small golden gilded handle pulls it up. The handle is also, of course, hidden camouflaged with the other raised golden hued wires that mimic the handle. Nobody, even if they set to the arduous task of exploring that drawer, would find anything. I have almost missed it countless times as I set things inside and I have to graze my fingers along each wire until I find the one that moved slightly. Girls around the neighborhood have been keeping these, diaries, if you will and they have been talking about it all over town.  
  
My father has been in quite a mood recently but I guess that it doesn't help that my mother has been cold towards him. She has been distant and more often than not she has been sneaking out in all hours of the night and not returning until well after dawn. In return of my mothers constant neglect, my father refuses to converse with me even about the simplest matters. I'm getting ahead of myself though and my penmanship is becoming indecipherable as I write quickly. I need to remember that I will have many nights alone and undisturbed. Not even the housekeepers, nosy as they are, will disturb my room at night. I draw my own bath. I turn my own bed. I even bring down my dishes after supper. I feel that I'm capable enough to do that much. I rarely ever step downstairs for evening supper because I loathe the silences between my father, my mother, and I. Even as I try and strike up a conversation between the three of us it's all in vain.  
  
My room is festooned with floral furnishings. My boudoir shines among the extravagant belongings with hand painted crimson roses on a soft pink background. My walls highlight the room; its pale cherry color matching the wooden bed frame and down comforters. I sometimes detest the bright summer colors and just wish that my room was suffused in black. But of course father would never allow that. He reminds me that a young woman of fourteen shouldn't be holed up in a dark room. But of course now, he doesn't care. I could probably feign insanity and paint a long red stripe around the base of my room and he wouldn't notice. I sometimes miss the affection he expressed to me each night as he said goodnight.  
  
My view from the window is what I like most of this unnecessarily cheery room. It overlooks a vast garden of roses of all colors. Beyond it, a black line of trees and beyond that, I don't now. I've never ventured further than the thick forest though I have spent many hours in that field of roses, the sweet fragrance overpowering me until it sends me into a dream like delirium; the delicious diversion from my already odious life was tremendous. Though it distracted me from my reading, and I do enjoy a pleasant novel, it was still satisfying. My mind would drift along with the scent of those flowers. Images would fill my concentration from the books I read. The tales of maidens and their chivalrous hero's, always clad in steel armor atop a horse. Some treacherous dragon held the maiden captive until the hero swept her away, butchering the dragon. But recently my mother has stopped tending to those gardens, letting most of them whither. I've never had a green thumb, as it were, but I have been trying. All of it was futile of course because no matter how I try, the flowers are dying. The sweet perfume is waning quickly and I have stopped spending my hours there unless I am watering and pruning them. I miss looking out from the large double windows and seeing my mothers hunched form, pulling weeds and turning the soil. I sigh now as I think about it, the sadness washes over me until it threatens to overcome me. I usually count backwards until it passes.  
  
Tomorrow is Sunday Mass and as my candle fades I must complete this entry before it goes out on me. My inkwell is now empty so I shall use the last bit of ink in my pen to say goodnight.  
  
~~Madeleine~~  
  
Madeleine De La Mettrie October 1st the day of our lord: 1641  
  
I have much to write, the candle stands tall and recently used. The wax drips slowly down the periphery of the pale stick. My inkwell is newly filled and a replacement stands near ever at the ready, I have even replaced the writing implement so that nothing goes wrong as I account my day. The other girls say that it takes too much time and energy writing everyday but I do not care, the last I checked this was my journal, not theirs. Usually nothing astounding happens at Sunday Mass. The silence is usually so deafening. If you've never been in a giant soundless room then you could never picture this but I shall try and describe it to the best of my ability. It's almost as if you've gone insane and though you can see the mouthing of people around you in silent prayer you cannot hear a thing save for the sound of your own blood pulsing in your ears. It's as if they are brainwashing you until you sign your soul over just to hear a single sound no matter what that might be. I know more than once I would have done the same thing. I don't know how much more detailed I can be so that you can imagine it but so long after the silence there is the blessed noise. The sound of the priest starting his oration. But this day would be different for a new Cure would be announced and as I saw him trailed by two young boys the breath stopped in my throat. That man is the personification of beauty, it seems to embody him. An almost holy light appeared to envelop him as he made his way like a ghost down the narrow red carpeted conduit towards the alter. Tight curls, black as jet, were nestled gently under his matching barret. A simple black shift blanketed his chiseled form I could clearly see that, if not with my eyes, then with my imagination. I had impure thoughts then that would have earned me a million Hail Mary's and twice as many Our Fathers if I had ever confessed them, but this was for me to keep always. I was surrounded on either side by my parents. My mother, on the left, and my father, on the right. I could see the effect that man had on my mother because her eyes were on him (as were the other women and a few men) and her face was a deep pink as her cheeks flushed. My heart threatened to stop as I saw his graceful movements and his confident stride, a clever grin that kept me unblinking until I only saw his backside and even that was quite a view. My face blushes now as I speak of him, this Father Louis who, in a very short time became the new Cure. His predecessor had been a dreadful man of an old age, who's voice was like sandpaper being pulled over steel He wore, at all times, a decorated ivory crucifix which had been appeared to have been worn constantly because the ashen Christ was chipped and dark spots had stained the slim legs. Overall, it appears that I (and many others) will like this Cure better than the last.  
  
As Father Louis paused where the priest once stood his dazzling smile made my head tilt slightly and as he spoke the words melted as they left his mouth. Nobody has ever had that effect of me before and it frightens me, just a bit. But I ask myself, Why? Why do I feel like this? Why did he take that vow of chastity? Myriads of questions swallow my other thoughts so I need to stop thinking about him and get on with my entry and ironically, it's about him. I never did hear a word he said but as he took his leave I had to fight the urge to call him back, it was as if when he was talking, nothing else mattered. All was right with the world though I knew it wasn't. I both hated and loved what he unconsciously did to me if that makes any sense, I know that it's a bit of an oxymoron. Part of me wanted him to leave so I wouldn't ever see that beautiful face again.  
  
I can't think anymore, not yet. Not tonight. I shall blow out this candle and sit in the darkness for a while thinking about that unreachable priest. Maybe for the next Mass I shall dress myself more than usual. I know my mother will be doing the same.  
  
Goodnight.  
  
~~Madeleine~~  
  
Madeleine De La Mettrie October 8th The year of our Lord: 1641  
  
I do grow tiresome of continuously writing day after day. I tried to write Monday evening but I just shook my head and lay down my pen so I shall write every week, of course Sunday. There isn't much to tell, I didn't see Father Louis tonight. He was in confession with an older woman who it was rumored that she was a bit on the adulterous side. I know this woman and have had pleasant conversations with her, yet I feel such animosity towards her now. My pride keeps me from stating her name here and it's not because I want to save her some embarrassment should anyone find this prematurely. I saw the way she glimpsed at him that first Mass. Oh listen to me, I'm jealous over a man that I shall never possess, a man who is chaste for life and has given himself to the Lord. Maybe I should request that he visit my house for confession, I do need a tutor. Such schemes I plot, I sound as if I'm the conniving girl who lives down the lane from me. A spoiled little tow headed bitch who has stolen quite a few suitors from me and has managed to not get married, by choice of course. I heard told that a couple of the men committed suicide because of the anguish at not having her. I write this with much contempt which is often not in my nature. I'm off-track again, I find myself doing that. Maybe it's my inexperience to writing journals that has gotten me in the habit of doing that.  
  
My mother, if it were at all possible, has grown more distant. Like me she has stopped coming to supper leaving my father alone to his thoughts and his roasted quail. I have pity on him, being a Prosecutor he is not well liked. I should describe my father and you would know. His disposition is all but pleasant and he is usually quick to a hot temper. He stands almost a head taller than most of the people in the town and his stalwart stature gives the impression of power more so than his profession. He usually wears a simple midnight livery suit saved for those of lesser importance but he told me once that he shouldn't be sporting his vocation to every greedy thief that passed him by, it was safer to be unobtrusive and safe than pretentious and dead. His thick bristled mustache doesn't help his denote appearance but maybe he shouldn't keep it neater than his hair, running it through with a fine toothed comb.  
  
My mother, at one time, was loved by many people. I am her mirrored image, I have been told. Black curls slicked down in one long plait to bisect her back which is how I wear mine now. The last I saw her, which was a few nights previously, she wore her favorite dress. A glossy emerald garb that matched her eyes precisely. Under it she wore a lacey pastel green blouse bordered with lace, the intricate decorated buttons reached up the length of her slender neck. Her skin was of a pale milk color, flawless as mine is. Though she spent many hours in the unforgiving sun, her skin still kept it's childish like hue. Though my eyes are my fathers color, a rich, sharp brown, they are still wide set just like my mothers. Her lips were habitually painted a delicate shade of rose and her cheeks were of a natural pink woman died to acquire because they had to have that tinge artificially either by powder or pinching their cheeks rather hard. I, of course, acclaimed that trait which I am proud of because even the blond doesn't have that. I dislike her greatly. My mother has an almost elven face, her chin is delicately pointed and therein lies the difference. My face is well rounded, as I've been told, and I'm going to be quite immodest here, beautifully so.  
  
I'm going to save my candle and my now half empty inkwell. Hopefully I'll have better luck next week.  
  
Goodnight.  
  
~~Madeleine~~  
  
( Okay Disclaimer time! I don't own The Book of Shadows, the great and powerful James Reese does. I'm extremely jealous because I couldn't think of something as inventive as that. ~cries~ ;_; anyways I guess that's it for the disclaimers. Don't sue me and crap like that blah, blah, blah.)  
  
( A/N I'm a bit proud of my little story. I suppose that Madeleine could have kept a diary. I'm not sure on the dates and stuff like that only that when Louis and herself became lovers it was in the duration of a month or so. I kept it as IC as best as I could and I'm sure to get what she wants she can be a little devious. In the book there were no mentions of a blond girl who lived down the lane but who cares, Madeleine could use a little competition. ~steeples fingers and grins insanely~ Okay enough out of me, stay tuned to my next chapter!) 


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